


Blue Christmas

by Britpacker



Series: Seasons Of Goodwill [7]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, Family, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:25:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas is a time for families – a fact that’s never more apparent in the Reed/Tucker household than when Daddy’s spending it light years from home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Still not mine, and still unbeta'd. This episode of the series has a slightly higher rating than the average, but it's honestly not my fault... it's all down to Trip!

Silence lay heavy as a bank of leaden clouds over the spacious lounge. Unheeded, Melissa’s jigsaw depicting _One Hundred Endangered Mammals_ lay on a board in the middle of the floor, half the edges complete with the remaining pieces scattered. In one corner Charlie scowled into his new detective novel, reading the same page for the seventh time while opposite him Jon Archer slumped absently unfastening the lowest button of his shirt, only half his attention on the festive movie playing on a large monitor. “Daddy’d throw a _dickie fit_ if he saw the dinner things still out,” the youngest present remarked, sharpening his diction to mimic his British parent’s clipped expressions of displeasure. Charlie snorted.

“Guess he would, so if you wanna start clearin’, feel free,” their father suggested. Jamie harrumphed impressively.

“Can’t be bothered.” 

Trip almost grinned. “Nope. Me neither. Charlie, where d’ you think you’re goin’?”

“To my room.” His short blond hair spiked up and the smart shirt he’d been told to wear untucked from his charcoal dress pants, Charles Tucker IV gave his answer in a barely decipherable grunt. Rocketing out of his slouch on the sofa, his namesake pulled him back in a decisive grip.

“No you’re not. You’re gonna sit down here and be social with the rest of us on Christmas Day, you got that? Melissa, will you get that goddamn puzzle outta here if you’re not workin’ on it? You’re gonna lose half the pieces before you even start!”

His daughter’s thin, well-cut lips trembled. “There’s no need to shout, Poppa,” she said, her attempt at wounded dignity spoiled by the petulant toss of her silky sable ponytail. “I’ll put it away then, shall I?”

“Thanks, sweetie.” Trip reached out to brush her glowing cheek. “And I’m sorry. I don’t mean to shout.”

“Melissa cries too easily.”

“Jamie, why dont you go do somethin’ useful like fetchin’ another beer for your Uncle Johnny, ‘stead of hidin’ your face in that damn game? Jee- _sus!_ If your Daddy was here to see you all actin’ like this in front of a visitor...”

“Dad promised he’d call.” Demonstrating his disapproval the only way he could without another warning Charlie threw himself down into the chair his kid brother vacated, a sneer twisting his full lips as it squeaked a protest. Jamie hesitated, an altogether too familiar little wrinkle appearing between his dark brows.

“You think everything’s okay, Uncle Jon?” he asked. On her knees clearing away her puzzle, Melissa froze.

“Your Daddy’s been pretty adamant the Klingons will launch some kind of attack today, Jamie.” A glance at his host confirmed Admiral Archer’s hunch: no sugaring the pill. “And he’s not the best strategist in Starfleet for nothing. He’ll comm. as soon as he’s able. You know that.”

“And he’ll expect us to be sittin’ down here together makin’ an effort for Christmas, right?” A note of steel injected into his voice, Tucker focussed on each child in turn, something inside him going ping at the mix of sorrow, teenage truculence and disappointment that bled through their mumbled agreement. “Go get that beer, Jamie; Charlie, help Lissa get cleared up, then we’ll all deal with the table, yeah?”

He didn’t expect enthusiasm, but all three scrambled to obey. “Guess they wanna kill a few more minutes too,” he muttered to his old friend, waving him back to his chair when Jon would have offered to help. “You know what Mal says: it'd be rude to ask a guest to help with the housework. Drink your beer – and if that comm. beeps, you just holler, okay?”

“They’re just being kids, Trip.” With the air of a man stepping into an unmarked minefield, Archer stopped his friend’s escape with a lift of the hand. “They’re missing their Dad and they don’t know how to handle it. You were fifteen once – and you sure as Hell remember Lizzie hitting puberty when she was Lissa’s age! Even Jamie’s not a little kid anymore.”

“No.” Almost eleven and a perfect replica of his Daddy save for the ocean-blue eyes of the Tucker clan, James Jonathan Reed chose that moment to enter the lounge with his head bowed and a cold bottle clutched in his hand. “Thanks, son. That the comm?”

“Daddy!” Before the hum of interference could clear Jamie was jumping with excitement, his shriek enough to bring even his older brother at a run. The screen wavered for a split second , a wash of colour swaying across before the image formed, a sharp-angled face wreathed in smiles as a crisp English accent barely distorted by distance called a very merry Christmas to them all.

While their younger progeny shrieked, bouncing in front of the monitor like the energetic puppies of yesteryear and their firstborn bestirred himself to crack the first broad smile of the day, Trip took a moment to contemplate the love of his life. 

Tired. Dark smears beneath his eyes and the unmistakable dark blue of a regulation Starfleet jumpsuit visible as he stretched from his chair to blow kisses at the screen. “You been workin’ too hard again, Cap’n Reed?”

“Blame the Klingons, Commodore Tucker.” A full-fledged smile deepened the creases at the corners of Malcolm Reed’s eyes. “I _did_ predict an attack this morning, what with peace and goodwill having the same effect on the High Council as dust-mites dipped in oak pollen on me.”

“Only with extra blood,” Charlie muttered. Melissa squealed.

Jamie shuffled nearer to peer at his British parent. “You’re okay, Daddy?”

“Fine.” Conscious of Trip and Jon rolling their eyes, Malcolm grinned hugely at his anxious children. “Dinner’s been delayed – their first attack knocked out power to half the colony, but we’ve rigged temporary E.M. barriers around the main generators now and everything’s coming back online.”

“Casualties?”

When storm-grey eyes narrowed, Admiral Archer applied a mental boot to his own rear end. “I know there’ll be a full report on my desk, Malcolm, but you’ve got to let me ask,” he wheedled.

“A dozen injured, one seriously, but Doctor Wesley is confident he’ll recover. The colony was on high alert, Jon.”

Trip’s shoulders dropped from their tight hunch. Jonathan bowed acknowledgement of the pardon his given name expressed. “You talked the colony leadership around,” he stated.

“And you’re surprised?” his godson muttered. 

“No.” Before either father could admonish the insolence, Jonathan reached out to ruffle Charlie’s hair. “Even though I know how stubborn the representatives of Solantis can be! That Melissa’s sweater you’re wearing, Malcolm?”

“Of course.” Thickly woven of grey wool shot through with threads of silver and blue that exactly matched the eyes of giver and recipient alike, the garment hung off Reed’s slender frame giving him the look of a little boy who’d burrowed through his daddy’s closets. 

Well, Tucker consoled himself, he’d warned their daughter not to use him as a mannequin! And if that wasn’t his whole uniform Starfleet’s special representative to the outlying colony of Solantis was wearing underneath, his Grandpa’s name hadn’t been Charles Tucker the First.

Melissa cocked her head, crossing both arms over her chest. “It’s a bit too big,” she commented. Malcolm shrugged.

“I like ‘em roomy,” he said seriously. “You all look very smart, by the way – Charles, _do_ tuck your shirt in, you’re not at school today! Pleased with your presents?”

Three young voices merged in a symphony of agreement. “We’ve got most of yours under the tree for you, Dad,” Jamie announced proudly. “Did you like...”

“My _Collected Poirot_? Very much, thank you – there’s not much to do but read in the evening around here. And thank you for the single malt, Charles – your father made an excellent choice.”

“Didn’t Poppa send you a present?” 

Three pairs of narrowed eyes, two stormy as the wild North Atlantic, the other the colour of a California summer sky, fixed accusingly on his face. Trip bit the inside of his cheek. Hard.

“Did you like your new toy, Mister Reed?” he asked sweetly. Malcolm’s lips pursed.

“It looks – intriguing, Mistah Tuckah, but I shan’t have time to play with it ‘til later,” he said sedately. His husband doubted even Johnny Archer’s sharp eye would pick up the Englishman’s faint blush.

Of course without the protection of subspace static, he couldn’t hope to be as lucky. “Poppa, why’ve you gone red?” his daughter enquired.

_Dammit!_

“It’s just as lil’ warm in here, that’s all,” he lied, shucking out of the suit jacket he’d worn in honour of his absent spouse. Four identical Reed pouts graced the faces of his family.

“No it isn’t,” Charlie argued. From his distant eyrie, Malcolm cleared his throat.

“Don’t contradict your father; it’s rude,” he said, deliberately mild. “How was dinner?”

“Quiet,” James informed him. Melissa nodded.

“We cooked everything right though,” she said proudly. “Will you...”

“I’m told it’ll be ready in an hour.” They looked so woebegone – even Jonathan, slouched in his accustomed armchair in the far corner - that it broke Malcolm’s heart while simultaneously sending a thrill of pleasure up his spine. “I suppose it’s quite a luxury that I don’t have to peel a potato, but...”

“We miss you too, Dad. When’re you comin’ home?”

“I’m scheduled to leave on the twenty-eighth.” Three more days. Trip wasn’t sure he could last that long. 

Something beeped, and the smile faded from Malcolm’s face. “Time’s up. I’ll call you again tomorrow, okay?”

“Happy Christmas, Daddy!” Though Melissa’s voice wavered her bright smile did not and Trip willed himself to match her fragile courage, waving until the screen had faded to black.

*

Having paced his dark bedroom for fifteen minutes debating with himself, Trip finally gave up. Calling up the lights on their lowest setting he threw himself down in front of the computer, pulled the edges of his robe together to be held in place by his dipped chin, and tapped in his Starfleet authorisation code.

For several seconds all he heard was the scratchy crackle of subspace interference; then, muffled at first, a friendly female voice. “This is Solantis Colony central communications; I repeat, Solantis Colony. How can I help you, Commodore Tucker?”

“Um, you got a vis channel?”

“There’s... apologies... ion storm.” He caught the echo of the words as the colony’s comm. officer fiddled with her console. “I’m sorry, Sir, the ion storms are affecting long-range communications, but the visual link should activate in a couple of moments. How can I...”

If she knew his name his business should be obvious, but being married to a stickler for _proper form_ had mellowed Trip’s natural impatience. “I was hopin’ to speak to Captain Reed if he’s available,” he said mildly. Briefly, the image of a trim Arab woman wobbled across his screen.

“The connection may not be immediate, Commodore, but if you’ll bear with it...”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he muttered under a shrill screech over subspace. Sitting back he raised his chin, letting the pale blue terrycloth gape. Time seemed to stop.

Then, in a clear moment of transmission, a breathless, slightly hoarse single syllable. “Reed.”

Warmth spread though Trip’s chest, oozing down to settle between his parted thighs. He took a large swallow that wasn’t enough to eliminate all the squeakiness from his voice. “Hey, darlin’. Been playin’ with your new toy?”

“Erm yes, how did you...”

By the time Trip finished laughing the visual connection had come on line. Suddenly, breathing was no longer a given.

Wrapped in his grey satin bathrobe Malcolm lounged across a narrow blue Starfleet bunk. A towel lay scrunched on the floor, and the fingers of his right hand played idly with the flared base end of a blue rubber implement Trip recognised only too well. “Think ah know how y’ sound right after you’ve come by now, darlin’,” he croaked.

“Hmm, I suppose you do.” Belatedly he realised he was being scrutinised with equal enjoyment, and the hand toying with that very personal Christmas present wasn’t quite so casual. Trip swallowed hard.

“Was it good?”

“God, yes!” The hand clenched tight around the dildo’s flexible head. Trip licked his lips.

“Feel – familiar at all?” he rasped, giving the bedroom door a sideway glance. The one thing he didn’t need right now was Jamie announcing he couldn’t sleep and needed Poppa to go make one of his special hot chocolate drinks!

The sight of Malcolm’s teeth nibbling the succulent flesh of his bottom lip launched a bolt of lust right into his balls. “It’s been a long time since I’ve needed a replica up there,” the Brit cooed, bringing the toy up toward a narrowed, almost flinty stare. “But it’s a good ‘un though, I’ll grant you that. Very – satisfying.”

“Fills you up in all the right places, huh?” The sight of those fingers manipulating the device was more than he could stand. Unnoticed by either man Tucker’s hand dropped toward the weight growing between his legs. “Dimensions what you’re used to?”

“It certainly hit the spot, if that’s...”

As the words petered out Trip watched his beloved’s thin, well-formed lips pull up into a decidedly sullen pout. “If you’re suggesting anyone else has got a hand on your _dimensions_ , Commodore Tuckah, you’ll be stuffing this down your bloody trousers to hide a certain _disfigurement_ , do I make myself clear?”

“Hey, no threats against a superior officer, Cap’n.” No, Mal never needed more than a hint, and by the sceptical look he was giving the plug’s blunt head everything had just dropped neatly into place. “And nope – the only hands involved were mine. those dimensions are all yours, you know that.”

Self-satisfaction coloured his husband’s purr, undistorted by the storm’s interference. “I should think so, too. I thought the bulge on the back was a manufacturing flaw, but...”

“’s all me.” When a neat nail flicked the rubber vein Trip could’ve sworn the sensation thrummed right through his fleshly one. “I got this special resin, see: feels like unscented lube. It expands...”

“As you do?” The image flared across Reed’s internal viewscreen with a comet’s brilliance: Trip spread-eagled on their great big bed, legs apart, one large, capable hand stroking his glistening length. Briefly he wondered if the storm outside was buggering up the colony’s internal air pressures. Trip nodded, shuffling down into his seat with legs apart and a cocky smile on his face.

“There’s some kind of chemical reaction in the resin,” he drawled, watching the Brit’s shiver loose arrows of silver through the shimmery-softness of his robe. “The cast kinda slides off in your hand, then gets used as a mould for a real personal gift. Dammit Malcolm, stop _doin’_ that!”

“It’s _my_ toy,” the younger man retorted, struggling to maintain petulance while rubbing a perfect replica of his husband’s phallus against his cheek. “My very own Trip on a stick. I’m going to need a bigger toolbox to store it in when I get sent away again.”

“That better not happen in a hurry.” And anyone who decided Starfleet’s finest strategist should be sent to an outlying colony around Christmastime again, Trip was determined, would find out Malcolm wasn’t the only dab hand with a phase weapon in the family. “Did you get that Christmas dinner?”

Fine-chiselled features scrunched into the scowl of a rebellious boy. “For what it was worth – turkey roll, bullet-sprouts and brown water dubiously described as gravy. It rather reminded me of Mum’s roasts when Mad and I were little.”

“That bad, huh?” When he let the dildo drop onto the bed again Trip could begin to relax but it seemed his partner couldn’t keep his hands off the thing. “Am I intrudin’ on your _personal time_ here, Malcolm? If you wanna check out those proportions again...”

“Later, perhaps.” As if he registered his husband’s pique Malcolm flipped the offending item to the floor. “And however snugly fits, it’ll never come close to the real thing.”

Golden eyebrows rose up a broad, furrowed brow. “Oh?”

“It can’t press me into the mattress. It doesn’t have those big, strong arms to wrap around me, even if it had the inclination. And there’s no sweet Southern drawl to whisper _sweet nothin’s_ in my ear as I fall asleep.”

“Aw, Malcolm!” The tenderness in his beloved’s voice raised gooseflesh all over and Trip blinked hard against sentimental tears. “I miss you too, darlin’. All that’ll be waitin’ when you come home, you got that?”

“Aye, Sir.” Cheekily, Reed blew a kiss his way. “Sleep well, and give the kids a kiss for me – if Charlie’ll let you!”

“I’ll make damn sure he does.” Saying goodbye was always tough. With Malcolm’s erotic intent made obvious by the slide of his eyes down to his custom-made sex toy on the floor, it made tracking a lone Suliban across an overcrowded planet seem a snip.

And one of them at least, Trip conceded when the screen went black, was going to struggle to sleep tonight.


End file.
